These Dark Thoughts
by RatTrap
Summary: When Hermoine's parents are killed, nothing anyone does can comfort her. But when a flower with a kind message appears on her desk she feels like she's finally found an understanding, if anyonymous, friend. That is, until she discovers who it is. HrDr
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

Author's Note: I don't remember anything past the fourth book, and even then my memory is dodgy at best. Potter Purists: this is not for you. Otherwise: please enjoy.

Draco could see her out of the corner of his right eye, but just barely. He turned himself in his seat so he looked as if he was staring at the wall out of boredom. He could see her better that way. He told himself that he wasn't really watching her. Just looking at the little mudblood occasionally, that's all, to keep up his hatred. He didn't know why he lied to himself like that all the time. Maybe he was hoping that saying it would make it a truth, instead of a lie. Just like how he lied to himself that last summer hadn't happened.

Her quill kept in time with the professor's words for a good ten minutes. Then, just like it had all the other times, it faltered, hovering above the parchment, and her brown hair (it was really more chestnut than brown) swung forward to cover her face. Draco forced his hands to relax, and turned his face nonchalantly away. But his ears strained and as the professor paused for a breath, he could hear the teardrop when it hit her parchment. He really couldn't help himself and turned his head slightly, just in time to see her blot the tear and shake her hair out of her face.

No one else noticed. No one else ever noticed. She wiped the side of her nose and Draco was the only one who saw that she was wiping away a stray tear. He didn't realize he was staring until she looked at him, and he turned away as if she had burned him. He never blushed- it was one of his best qualities. With his ice blond hair and pale skin it would be a disaster if he did blush. Instead, when embarrassed or upset, his entire body became rigid, and his left shoulder muscle jumped spasmodically. He rotated his shoulder to hide it, and if anyone asked, he was sore from Quidditch practice.

When his shoulder had calmed down, he looked out of the corner of his eye at her. Her quill was moving across the parchment, her face serene as she wrote, all traces of the hatred that had flared in her eyes when she'd looked at him gone. Draco felt himself relax. For a moment he'd been afraid that she knew. But since she didn't stand up and start hurling death spells at him, he figured it'd just been the same old hatred for the same old reasons. That was okay. That he could handle. If she knew he was to blame for what had happened that summer…

The quill stopped. Draco's fingers tightened on the edge of the desk and a cold spasm of anxiety went through him. He turned so he could see her better, unable to stop himself. Her hair swung forward again but before it did Draco saw the buildup of tears in her eyes, shimmering and almost pretty as they pooled near the bottom lashes, and the trembling of her lower lip, held tight so no one could tell.

Draco turned quickly. He could feel Goyle looking at him.

"Keep your stupid face to yourself, you git," he hissed under his breath. Goyle blinked.

"What were you looking at?"

Draco ignored him. He considered most questions people asked him too stupid to answer, and Goyle was the king of such questions. Used to Draco's silence, Goyle turned to look himself, head swiveling awkwardly on his beefy neck. "I don't see anything,"

Draco looked too. He couldn't help it. Her hair was still covering her face in a dark golden curtain and the hand that held the quill was loose, as if she was too exhausted to hold it any longer. As Draco watched, two teardrops fell onto the parchment. Panic bubbled up inside him. If she didn't stop crying, then people would start noticing, and maybe she'd tell them and somehow someone would connect the dots and he'd go to Azkaban-

Draco whispered the words to a spell the family gardener had taught him a long time ago. It wasn't much, really nothing more than a cheap magic trick, but he couldn't think of anything else to make her stop crying. A flower appeared on her parchment, under her nose, its dark red petals almost touching her hand. Another of her tears fell onto one of the petals and glittered there, pretty as a diamond, before sliding down into the flowers depths. Draco watched as she sat straighter, shook her hair back, and stopped, brown eyes narrowing. She glanced at the boys sitting on either side of her- the weasel with his head in the crook of his arm, snoring quietly, Potter doodling with a stupid, dreamy expression on his face- then fingered the petals, frowning as she caught sight of the piece of parchment tied to the stem.

_Don't cry._

Not exactly eloquent, but it was the only thing Draco could think of, and it seemed to work. After months of watching and reacting, he had finally gotten a reaction out of her. Draco turned back to the front, feeling a perverse sense of satisfaction. Maybe now she'd stop blubbering all the time and realize she wasn't the only one whose life was fucked up. Goyle (who had long since resumed staring at the professor with an expression like that of a particularly stupid cow) had lost both his parents and his aunt, and he didn't break down crying in class when he thought no one was looking. Even Potter-

He really couldn't lie to himself very well, not even about emotions. He wasn't mad at her. What he was feeling was much more deep and complicated. Guilt, maybe, and frustration and anger at both himself and his father. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as she carefully put the flower in her robe pocket and picked up the quill. She didn't write though. The corner of her mouth turned up as if smiling at some secret joke, her lips curled, and her eyes softened with pleasure. It was such a different look than she usually had, and Draco found himself curious about it. _She must like flowers._ _I don't. I don't care for pretty things._

He really had to stop lying to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks, Sims2Lover. You're the best. :) This one's for you.

Hermione smiled at herself in the mirror. She had never thought about the way she smiled until she'd had to start faking it. She tried one with teeth, then decided against it. It made her look like a gargoyle. She smiled with her mouth closed instead, so her cheeks bunched up and her eyes crinkled. She toned it down a bit, lowering her eyelashes for a more sultry effect. Still no good.

She sighed and dropped the smile, leaning over the sink to examine her face in the mirror. Her skin was pale and drawn, with sickly, bruise-like shadows under the eyes. She splashed her face with water and scrubbed it clean on her robes, thinking of what her mother would say if she saw her looking so awful. She would place a cool hand on her forehead and smooth her hair away. _Are you feeling alright, dear?_

No. Goddammit, no.

Hermione felt the tears start to come, making her eyes hot and wet. She brushed them away angrily. _You're sixteen, Hermione. Stop crying for your parents like you're five. _All she had done the past two months since their funeral was cry. She was sick of it, but couldn't seem to stop. She knew that people all grieved in different ways and figured hers must be to cry buckets until she couldn't anymore.

_Don't cry._

Hermione dipped her hand into her pocket, gasping and pulling it away when a thorn pricked her finger. She sucked at the spot, wincing, then examined the small red dot on her pointer finger. A bead of blood pooled and ran. She washed it under the tap then took out the rose more carefully, cupping the flower in her hands so the stem was pointing towards the floor.

The outside petals were starting to brown and fall away, but the middle was a deep, rich red and the petals soft as velvet as she brushed them against her cheek. Its smell was not as sweet as perfume but more natural and heady, and so strong it made her head spin. She put the rose on the edge of the sink and untied the piece of parchment. Don't cry winked at her in metallic silver letters and a warm feeling blossomed in her chest.

She found Harry and Ron in the common room by the fire, school things a forgotten heap by their feet as they discussed a Quidditch team.

"Why weren't you at dinner?" asked Harry when Hermione sat down next to Ron.

"Never mind that, mate," Ron waved it away. Hermione was glad she didn't have to make up an excise. "Listen Hermione, do you think I could see your essay for professor Flitwick's class? I kinda fell asleep in class today…"

Hermione looked at him blankly. "Essay?"

"I don't want to copy it, exactly, just look at it, y'know, get ideas,"

"What essay?"

Ron and Harry glanced at each other, startled.

"C'mon Hermione," said Ron. "I saw you taking notes. I promise I won't copy,"

"The essay on Godric Griffindor," Harry prompted gently, when Hermione didn't say anything. "Professor Flitwick assigned it at the end of the lesson today,"

Oops. That must've been around the time she'd found the flower. She hadn't heard any of the lecture after that. "I didn't hear him say anything about an essay,"

Ron gaped at her. "Come off it Hermione! You'd either have to be deaf or as stupid as Crabbe and Goyle not to know about it. I mean, if you don't want to let me see it you can just say so-ow!"

"Don't worry about it Hermione. Ron will do it himself." Harry dropped a book into Ron's lap and gave him a hard look. "Won't you Ron?"

Ron rubbed his knee, scowling.

"I don't see why you had to hit me,"

Harry thumbed through a book, his voice forcedly casual.

"You know why, Ron,"

"No I don't! I'm sorry I can't read your mind-" Harry gave him a look full of meaning and he trailed off awkwardly. "Oh yeah," He had the decency to look down, shamefaced. He rubbed the back of his neck, two spots of color high on his cheeks. "I'll do it myself, Hermione. It's okay,"

"We can talk to Professor Flitwick for you if you want," added Harry. "I'm sure he'll understand if you've been having a hard time concentrating during lessons lately,"

They looked at her, their faces twin studies in pity. Hermione found herself annoyed.

"I'll write the essay," she said, sounding more abrasive than she meant to. "Don't make such a big deal out of it,"

"Do you…need anything, then?" Ron's voice was unnaturally high. "We never talked, about the thing with your parents, I mean. And well, we're here for you, if you need us,"

"I don't," Hermione said flatly. She stood, not looking at either of them, and left without saying goodnight. The good feeling was gone, leaving behind the old emptiness and exhaustion. She dropped into bed and closed her eyes, praying that sleep would come, though she wasn't fool enough to think that it would. She had hardly slept for two months. Why should tonight be any different?

Hermione laid the rose on the nightstand. She had forgotten to ask Ron and Harry which one had given it to her. She'd do that tomorrow. She sighed and kicked off her trainers, then crawled under her bed sheets. She scrunched them up around herself so she was cocooned in a warm shell of blankets. It didn't help. She wished she was anywhere but there, doing anything besides facing an endless, sleepless night. Attacking dragons would be great; an army of angry trolls even better. Anything, _anything _to distract her from the aching sadness that wouldn't let her sleep.


End file.
